


thunder and applause

by kinpika



Series: BLUE [6]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Lots of waxing poetry, smallest violin plays, spoilers for retribution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: “Why didn’t you tell me?”The first reaction is to laugh. A manic bubble rises in your throat, and you swallow. Hug your knees to your chest, focusing on the way Daniel rubs your back in small, rhythmic circles. “I couldn’t.”“…Why?”One day, you know that you would've said something. But plans never work out.





	thunder and applause

**Author's Note:**

> another take on a reveal.

When your eyes finally open, you have to scrub away the fuzz. Thick and heavy, like your eyelids, and you just want to roll back under the covers for good. But you don’t. Just feel out for the other body, more source of warmth. Your fingers find nothing but the edge of the bed, and a suspiciously empty space.

Frowning, you finally blink. Wake. Watch as the sensors in the room awaken too, slowly bringing the light of the room up to a comfortable brightness. Low and orange, but highlighting that the only mass in the bed was still you.

But it doesn’t make you worry anymore. If anything, you bury yourself back under, take a deep breath. Daniel had said something about needing to head out early last night, in between takeaway and shitty movies. Phone ringing far too often to be a friendly call, but he’d ignored them for as long as he could.

You had heard him murmuring just before bed, to someone else. Focused on the neighbours downstairs to avoid listening in, no matter what advantage it might’ve given you.

With the lights growing a fraction brighter, you know that the settings are telling you it’s time to get up. And no amount of technology was probably going to convince you otherwise, was it not for the fact that Daniel had put some effort into adjusting settings just to suit you solely. That thought makes your stomach flip, in a way it had been doing far too often lately. Leaves you sinking into the pillows (exactly seven of them, five of which for you), smiling to yourself.

Up, come on. Get on with the day.

Shower and find clothes that were soft and cottony. Daniel was wider in the hips, and you have to double tie the knot at the front to keep them up. But his shirts smell like the fancy washing liquid you know he uses, even if he insists he doesn’t, and it’s like a perfect little bubble. You let yourself, for one whole private moment, feel what he insists he feels.

And it’s good and warm. The kind that gets you out of the bedroom, down the hallway. Nice and clean, window partway open, breakfast cool on the counter. It doesn’t bother you, that the pancakes had rivets of maple syrup and the bacon was decidedly crispier than you were used to. As you eat and find juice in the fridge, see the note.

_Didn’t want to wake you_

_Went to Rangers HQ_

_See you soon_

_Love,_

_Daniel_

You know your heart shouldn’t skip the beat it does. But it does, every single time. With the weeks stretching out like they do, and how you’ve moved more into his place than you want to admit, you can’t help it.

So you smile at the note, laying it flat on the counter. Finish off the juice, orange and mango, something you had grown uncharacteristically fond of since this all started. Just like how you wash the plate in the sink, setting it aside once it was rinsed. Simple things, that were oddly homier than you were used to. Or at least, how long it had been since you last did anything like this.

Those kind of thoughts were dangerous, because you had been burying everything else. Ignoring your phone, perhaps using the security at Daniel’s apartment as an excuse not to return to yours. After all, going there meant that you would likely run into a familiar face. One who didn’t ever take no for an answer.

At the edges of your mind, you feel the familiar press. Like Daniel’s mind was passing through, easy and comforting. You smile, as you hear the cherry picked words.

Before you frown, because you don’t get much deeper than that.

Not like you wish to pry, oh no. Even despite Daniel’s insistence that you were free to peek whenever you wanted, you stayed on the edges. You have the sneaking suspicion he enjoyed being read so easily, especially in the private moments, but you only ever went deep when you two were talking heavy. You remember your promises, and keep on the fence.

Setting all the glasses aside, you barely register that he was taking the elevator, until it was too late. How you’d taken three steps out of the kitchen, towards the entry. Mouth open, ready to say any kind of greeting.

Except you catch the voices, how the door swings. Daniel trying to fill the space, eyes wide. He looks ready to say something, anything. _Run_.

Comfort and safety makes you slack. It happened last time. It happens this time. Your feet aren’t quick enough, even as your mind processes the body behind Daniel. Puts the pieces together, face, name, move, hide, go.

“Logan!”

Daniel’s voice is a quick snap, and you don’t get down the hallway to the bedroom fast enough. If only because Ortega gets past Daniel, and you don’t have to read his mind to know how his eyes widen.

Exposed. Shit, fuck. _Shit_. Slam the door shut behind yourself, and you want to itch and drag. Hold your hands up, and the net has been pulled out from underneath you. To your right, you can see the mirror. See how orange stains you, separates you. Limbs not even matching a singular pattern, and you’re thankful, at least, you can’t see the scars.

You wish you could read Ortega’s mind. Turn it, walk him right out the door. You wish Daniel wasn’t knocking down the door — Logan, let me in, it’s alright — when it wasn’t.

Softly, after a few moments, you hear your name softly. “Please, let me in.”

When you had first shown Daniel, ready to save yourself, you had cried. Cried as he held you, for different reasons and in different ways. But this was unlike that time, because you don’t stop digging your nails into your arms, and your feet don’t move. Cold fear, sinking into your gut.

Logically, you know it’s because Ortega was the first to have seen your face. By accident, too, back then. He’d looked at the floor as he’d apologised, and a week later he said you had a pretty smile. Not said in the way he was known for, Ortega, poster boy of flirty behaviour. That was perhaps the first genuine compliment you had received from him.

Ortega was a lot of firsts, for you.

“Logan, I’ll fly in through the window if I have to.”

But it was never supposed to be this.

You open the door, much to Daniel’s surprise. Clear on his face, and he’s barely got it shut behind him, awkwardly shifting to close it, as he wraps his arms around you. “I’m so sorry,” he starts, working your fingers away from your arms. “I tried to call, but he ambushed me.”

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t. You’re still crying, tears practically leaking. Running down your cheeks, messing up the shoulder of his perfectly clean shirt. “I didn’t want to listen.”

“Fuck! Sorry. I should’ve let you—”

“Danny, it’s okay.”

As he cups your face in his hands, you can see his wobbly smile. Feel how he bleeds pain and concern and worry, with a thick layer of guilt that doesn’t wave away. “It’s not. I did this.”

“I shouldn’t have worn…”

“You should wear what you want. Seriously. Don’t say that.”

You can’t. Not ever. But you appreciate how serious he is, how he practically stamps his foot in his mind. Settled, finalised. As if that decides the entirety of it.

The question still rolls off your tongue. “What happens now?”

Static fills your mind when you reach out. Spiking, like there’s angry little thoughts wrapped up just down the hall. What you wouldn’t give to read his mind. Fear is crippling, and if Daniel notices, he doesn’t say. Wraps you up in his arms once more.

“I told him to leave, but—”

“He’s still here.”

Daniel sharpens under your hands. If this were any other time, you would think this was adorable, how protective he could try to be. Except, for once, you want to let him handle it. Want to sink back into the bed, rewire the systems, disappear for good. Don’t want to look at your arms, your legs. Don’t want to think about how Daniel notes he can feel the raised tattoos, even as he holds you.

You don’t want to take the first step. “We should—”

“I can kick him out.”

“Let me get changed.”

Long sleeves, long pants. Daniel is adjusting the thermostat at a panel on the wall, looking away to give you some privacy. Temperature dropping just a little to make you more comfortable. It makes you cry all over again, as you hug him first. If only because you didn’t know what else to do.

Neither of you comment on how he is practically carrying you down the hall. How his mind churns, about quickly taking you away, and kicking Ortega out. What he could say, to plead with Ortega not to say a single word. If only because he remembers you crying, and Daniel doesn’t want to see that happen again.

Ortega was awkwardly standing in the living area. Looking like he was ready to talk himself out, if you were being perfectly honest. Would you have preferred that? Probably, definitely, maybe. You were willing to risk breaking your mind, just to hide the truth from him.

“Logan…” he trails off, not knowing where to start. Where to go. Looking at the floor, as if it was the most interesting thing in the room.

It doesn’t alleviate how you struggle to breathe. Daniel settles you on the couch, and you don’t mean to cling to him, the way you do. Different, from when it was on your terms, revealing yourself. And you know, _you know_ , Ortega didn’t mean to. It was a series of unfortunate events, that lead to him walking around, debating whether to sit in the armchair or not.

Eventually he does, all the while studying his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Knee-jerk reaction of a response. Clear it up, sweep it under the carpet. Forget it, please, _please_. You know you could wish all you wanted, but it wouldn’t come true.

And you didn’t need to be a telepath, to know what that look meant. Ortega’s mind might’ve remained a mystery, but the way he purses his lips, stares at his hands. You’re dreading the next question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The first reaction is to laugh. A manic bubble rises in your throat, and you swallow. Hug your knees to your chest, focusing on the way Daniel rubs your back in small, rhythmic circles. “I couldn’t.”

“… _Why_?”

When Ortega looks at you, he looks positively heartbroken. Not a clean cut, right through the middle. Jagged and hurt, as if he’s torn between keeping his eyes on the floor, to stop looking at you. But if he does that, if he looks away, you’ll just disappear again. Poof, gone.

You bite your lip. How were you supposed to explain this? All of it? Daniel only got partial stories, whispered in the night. When his fingers strayed over scars, and you could _hear_ the question, the way he took it back immediately. Bits and pieces he could put together.

Ortega got nothing. You know that. How were you supposed to explain this to him now? After all, whatever you had was built on the safety net of being unknown. Insisting that he never quite knew you, and hoping one day he’d truly believe it.

“I—I couldn’t. I _couldn’t_. Too much at stake, and I didn’t think I’d even stick around as long as I did.” You had tried to leave, so many times. Always came back, for _him_.

That was the worst part — Ortega just had no idea what kind of pull he had over you.

“You said that you had enemies. You always said that. I—” Ortega cuts himself off, looking at you now.

What did he see? “You always thought I was being dramatic.”

His expression said a lot. That he didn’t mean. Didn’t want to know. That he was _sorry_. God, you hated pity so damn much.

 _Tell him_. It’s a nudge you weren’t expecting, and you look at Daniel then. Frown, even as you wipe away what remained of your tears. _Now’s the time._ Touching his cheek, you focus. Not a suggestion, but an argument. You can’t let him know, he’ll _hate_ you. _Won’t know until you try_. Daniel smiles, softly, leaning into your hand. _Please_.

You remember last Thursday, where you were complaining about Ortega. About the messages on your phone, and how you were sure he was staking out your apartment. How he wouldn’t give you any breathing room. Daniel had been cooking, nodding at all the right parts. Letting you talk while you set the table and poured wine and complained _complained complained_. Only when you needed to take a breath, did he say: ‘You still love him, don’t you?’

Quiet lulls, while you try to get your mind together. Politely, Ortega has looked away, out the window. Deep lines etched in his forehead. He looks so _old_ , so different from the face that kept you going for seven years. Time and mourning had hurt you both.

“I’m a re-gene.” You start. Shifting away from Daniel, hugging a pillow now. “I… have been since the beginning.”

“That why you never let me—anyone… see your face?”

Half shrug and a shake of your head. _Keep going_ , you can hear Daniel think from how he gets up and head toward the kitchen. _I’m right here_. “I didn’t want to be recognised. I didn't know who to trust. The government doesn’t like when their property escapes.”

Ortega has the shadow of a smile on his lips. “ _Twice_.”

“Twice,” you agree, but your tone isn’t proud. “Second time took a little longer.”

You don’t want the quiet to fall again, in case you stop. Breathing in deeply, newfound confidence barely holding on, you look at Ortega. Look at him properly, eyes tracing the minute scars on his face you inflicted. You don’t know if you’ll get to that explanation today.

“I got cocky, running with you. Thought that it’d been so long, they wouldn’t find me. Until Heartbreak.” Watch the way his face stiffens. Feel how your stomach churns. “I’m not entirely human… they could bring me back from the dead with just a flick of a switch.

“Remotely killed me a few times, too, over the years. Heartbreak was honestly just the worst death by that point. And for the next few years,” you add, as an afterthought. Dying was like second nature, anyway.

“How—”

“Death doesn’t mean anything to me by now.”

“That’s _not_ good.”

“Neither is being an experiment, but I don’t get a choice in that.”

Ortega balks. “You’re not—”

You smile, despite yourself. “Ricardo, I’m the literal personification of an experiment. I have a barcode on my chest that will give you _every_ little detail you wanted to know about me, and more.”

Daniel returns, coffee cups strung between his fingers. Settling them down on the table, it gives you a moment to breathe, think. Squeeze his hand, once he’s able to return for something to eat. Thank you, you practically breathe, and he squeezes your hand back. Tight and warm and solid.

There’s questions on Ortega’s face. Too many for him to decide where to go next. You know you have to take charge, and that’s the scariest part. Starting at the beginning was the worst.

“It’s called the Farm. Or, we called it that anyway. I was born in a vat, basically. Separated from everyone else once they found out I had telepathy.”

“How old are you?”

It’s a strange question. Not one you were expecting, out of everything. You raise a brow, as you ask: “Physically or mentally?”

That takes the colour from his face. “Both?” he asks, uncertainty heavy on his voice.

“Can’t speak for all of my limbs. And I had a simulated childhood, too.” Pause. “Probably in my thirties, if I had to take a wild guess.”

“‘Can’t speak for all of your limbs’? Logan, what does that _mean_?”

You can practically hear the way the wheels in his mind spin, as he draws conclusions. Easier to show, right? You shed the hoodie, letting it fall to the ground. Acutely aware of how on display your tattoos were now, and how Ortega doesn’t stop staring. You pull down the neck of Daniel’s shirt to your shoulder. One of the worst series of scars were around all your joints, after all. Thick and warped skin, as they just wanted you up and in working order, no time for pleasantries.

“Regrowing limbs is tricky, but attaching them is always worse.”

Ortega’s eyes nearly fall out his head, and he gets to his feet. Not an immediate threat, but you see how he wants to move. Come closer. Maybe even want to touch. You’re not sure if you’re there yet, but you pat the space on the couch beside you. Small steps. That’s what you tell yourself as you try to control your breathing, turning on the couch to rest on your knees, facing Ortega head on when he finally sits.

“Logan… you could’ve told _me_.” And what a strain on that word! Him, you should’ve trusted him from the beginning. It was so much easier to blame him, for dragging you in deep. You know the last seven years had been a toll on your thoughts about Ricardo Ortega, with his pushed back hair, easy grin, bright eyes. Warped it all.

“I was an escaped re-gene — still _am_ one — and you worked for the government. Not really ideal situation to reveal that I am… this.” Hand wave down.

“But Daniel…?” That accusatory glance, as yes, Daniel was technically government too.

“I didn’t… _know_ him. When we met. Then it was dinner, training, whatever.” It was different, and you don’t want to tell Ortega that. Safety and peace. “Also, I can read his mind.” Point in case, as you look at Ortega. The static rubs wrong, harder now.

Opening and closing his mouth twice, Ortega stills. He wants to say ‘I would’ve done something’. People always do. That’s what all the movies and shows tell you anyway. _Something_. Never a definite, solid answer. Like they will figure it out as they go along. You never could afford that chance.

“But you wouldn’t just let me hang out by myself. Always came back.” A smile breaks over your face, as you remember. How you’d even met, how he’d purposely hang out at the risk of his own neck in shady neighbourhoods, just to find you again.

Daniel was right. You do still love him. Quiet and fierce and pulling you in all the wrong ways. What would he have done, if you’d said something years ago? Would seven years not have stood in the way.

Would Daniel have even been here, now, warm hand on your shoulder as he tells you to eat? His mind is soft and cottony, but you can hear the way he thinks the same way. Regret colours him, as well as acknowledgement. Wisdom well beyond his years, as you watch how you sit with Ortega on the couch through his eyes.

You push in, just past the barrier. _I love you_.

“So, where does… what… seven years.” Perhaps, this is the first time you’ve seen Ortega at a loss for words. It is not a victory. “They took you away.”

“Back, technically. It wasn’t a good time.”

His eyes trace again, where he can see scars and damaged tissue, overlaid with perfectly bright tattoos. “Can I…” _touch them._ It’s what the rest of him says, fingers twitching in his lap.

Holding out your arm takes more willpower than you realised. Ortega is so careful, treating you like he had been for months. As if he could break you. As if, you muse. Nothing he could do would hurt you.

Ortega’s fingers gently brush over the thicker ones on your right arm. Big, wide strokes, as if done by a painter, not a scientist. Slightly raised, leading further up, where they would link towards the lines that extend from the centre of your chest.

“Logan, I wish you told me.”

So quiet, you have to lean in to hear. “I was afraid.” I still am. Ortega hears it, with how his touch grows a fraction firmer on your skin.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me since you came back?”

“Yes, and no.”

Daniel shifts in the corner of your eye. There’s worry written on his face now. Truth about the tattoos, that was all well and good. But the admission, that you were the one who broke his arm, broke Daniel’s knee, that carves you out.

“Logan,” he warns, eyes trained on Ortega. It might just be the thing to tip him over the edge.

“Ricardo, I—I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Soft, so soft. He wants to hold you. You’re not going to let him.

“I do.” It’s your turn, to trace his arm. Pressure there, and you can see the way the skin lightens around scars. “I didn’t mean to hurt you like this.”

“But you didn—”

It’s how his voice catches in his throat. All those little thoughts, like a jigsaw, slowly fitting together. You always meant to nudge him in the right direction, because you couldn’t face the truth yourself. Didn’t want to own up to it, the day you saw him in the hospital. Bloody and bruised by your hand.

Knife twist in your gut. “I went too far.”

Ortega doesn’t want to say the name, but it’s on his lips. _Anima_. Like a curse. And you’d been so careful, so _damn_ careful, to not go too far since then. Saving people. Getting civilians out of the line of fire. Only going after those who hurt. Strange way for a villain to operate.

“No,” he whispers. “Why?”

“I was so hurt and _angry_ after everything. I thought it was the only way—”

“For what?”

“To—I don’t know! I just wanted to do something, anything. I was in so much pain…”

It’s not justifiable to your ears, you know. Even as you laid out the board, strung all the threads between. Linking the truth between bigwigs and the mob. Finding out what was the core of it all. Like a hole had been carved, right through your middle. And it _hurt,_ oh god, it hurt so damn much.

Ortega is not a quiet fire. He is loud, rough and burning. Too many truths laid out, and he wanted to push the jigsaw away. Perhaps he saw it, underneath all the words. The reality. But his knee-jerk reaction was to reject it, never take anything other than the only definite he had made up in his mind as the absolute. Some people called it stubbornness. You would call it pigheadedness, on a good day.

“You broke Daniel’s _leg!_ ” Hand sweeps out, towards him. As if Daniel would step in, intervene. He’s hovering, nervous scattering thoughts that slip through your fingers. Doesn’t know if he should interrupt.

“And I spent nearly a month apologising for it when I told him.” Truths, bigger ones now. Layers to the puzzle.

Daniel _buzzes_ as he tries to get into Ortega’s line of sight, trying to pull you out of the fire. “Ortega, we’ve already talked about this. For _ages_. I know Logan feels bad about it.”

“I had to help you through therapy, Daniel! Fuck, you couldn’t walk for _weeks_.”

You know. You know you know you _know_! Even now, Daniel still had a limp, and chances are it would never quite go away. Always a stiff joint, especially in the dead of winter.

“That’s not… Ricardo, please.”

 _Please what?_ You hear it in his voice, but it rings out in your head. What did you want from him, anyway? He’d seen the tattoos, the scars, and bitten at whatever secrets you had shared. You wish you could dive in deep, take this all away. Start again.

Let go. “I’m not doing that anymore. I _swear_ to you.”

“You attack politicians and officials.” _Point_.

“Only the corrupt ones.” It feels weak on your ears. World shrinking at the edges of your vision. But you hold firm, because you know it to be true. The ones who buy in on re-genes and illegal technology. Exploitation at its finest.

“Oh, well that makes it a whole lot better.” If Ortega could be anymore sarcastic, you might’ve laughed.

Taking his hands in yours, it’s a jumpstart. First step. Let go, Logan. Let go. “I’m trying to make up for what I did. How I hurt you. But it’s hard, and I don’t know who I am when I wake up some days. I’ve been tortured, stabbed, poisoned… killed,” you say, softly. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

For one whole minute, Ortega remains quiet, and doesn’t take his hands from yours. You can feel the rough skin, the minute scars. Metal and that inescapable thrum of life. There are words on your lips: if it wasn’t for you, I would’ve died, long ago. They do not wish to leave, not yet.

“Would you have ever told me?”

“Yes.” You mean it when you say the word. “ _Yes_.”

Ortega frowns. Not at you, at your hands. Pulls away with a sigh. The static is abated, but softer spikes give rise to heavier thoughts. A mile a minute, he thinks, going through loops. Mental gymnastics, that’s what Anathema called it. Marshal Charge, stuck with the job, the responsibilities, the thoughts and prayers.

Finally, his face smooths. Fixing Daniel with a look, there’s a question overhanging. “How do you fit into all this?”

Daniel is coloured pink, as he’s suddenly the centre of attention. Flutters a few centimetres off the ground, and you reach for him, squeeze his hand. It’s okay. Might as well.

“Dinner. And… other stuff.” A flush burns up his neck, to the tips of his ears. ‘Other stuff’. You want to groan, as Ortega is targeting you now. Staring you down.

But it breaks the spell. As if the last few minutes were in the past, immediately. Shuffled into a folder of mild relevance for another day. Incredible how Ortega worked, able to jump to the next available thing. You don’t know how he got to that point, how his thoughts ended up with him, brows raised, staring at the both of you.

(you don’t know how to take that look of hurt, right there, at the corner of his eye)

“What? I’m an adult.”

Lips twist. Not a smile, but trying to be. “Apparently.”

You roll your eyes, push him lightly in the shoulder. “We talk… a lot, really. There’s stuff in common we can just talk about. Similar experiences.”

“You’re a re-gene?” A stab at a joke, definitely.

At least Daniel buys into it, snorting and shaking his head. “You’ve seen me, Ortega. I think you would know by now.”

“Who knows.” His comment rings a little hollow, back towards you. Back towards your arms, and the glow.

Crossing your arms again, you don’t mean to try to cover as much as you could. “Are… are we still good?” Still friends? Still almost-maybes? Still never-quites?

Daniel doesn’t breathe, not really, as he seats himself down again. You let yourself branch out, trying to judge what he thought Ortega was thinking. Feeling. Try not to lose yourself in the way Daniel’s thoughts roll with thunder, stormy and sad. Thinking he was going to lose out. Both of you. That he had to bite on his tongue, one too many times, to let you get things out in the air. That this was the right way, and he’d simply played his part.

You manage to not look at him, even if you wanted to desperately. Remind him that _no_ , he was wrong, you weren’t going away. You do lose your footing a little in the hopelessness, the abject fear. Sadness and hope and how his heart burned.

Ortega remains quiet. Wipe the slate. Start over. You’d die, if you tried to force your way through the electricity. It wouldn’t be worth it.

“Think we can talk again, tomorrow? Tell me a bit more?”

And, he’s so hopeful, so careful. Fingers covering his mouth, and he’s brushing the scar just there. Buried amongst others, but you recognise it as yours. What a terrible person you are. You don’t deserve the second chance.

“That would be great.” If your voice cracks on the third note, no one notices, or politely refuse to comment.

He stands, taking up all the space in the room, even when he is curled in on himself. Not sure what to do now. How he stands over you, Ortega looks infinitely younger, terrified of what was right around the corner. You think, how many times you had saved each other’s lives. How you’d kissed, brilliantly, under the sun.

How you hug him, fiercely, because there wasn’t much else for you to do. It’s unexpected, you know. Never been one to initiate. Not even in the alley, his hands clutching you, pushing you against a wall. Funny how it’s like that. In a fight, you made the first move, always to rush and get in quick.

You have to remind yourself, that the battle was over. White flag waved. Ortega hugs you back, crushing you so. You forgot how tall he was.

It takes a moment to untangle. Let go, Logan. He kisses the top of your head, in a way that muddies you, like you’d taken the leap and survived. Even with the thunderous look and heavy eyes, Ortega doesn’t see the monster. Perhaps he sees you, Logan, a little clearer. Jigsaw pieces. Threads on a board. Red and drawn tight.

“Tomorrow.” Firm, sure, but his voice is thick and he still hasn’t let go.

First move, to take that step back. To find Daniel, the different warmth and different love, and say, “tomorrow.”


End file.
